More unusual was the fact that Sam Two Wolves sat with his back to the front entrance. Nobody wanted to sit with their back to the entrance, not since Wild Bill Hickok had done so in a card game in Deadwood and been shot in the back. Yet Two Wolves occupied that universally unpopular seat, unconcerned. He had someone watching his back.
That someone was Matt Bodine. Thirty, lean, rawboned, handsome, and clear-eyed, wearing two guns on his hips, that was Matt Bodine. He and Sam Two Wolves were friends, partners, and more: They were blood brothers, Brothers of the Wolf.
Their sacred pact had been sealed in blood in boyhood days, when they were both growing up in the Northern Range, uneasily straddling two societies, that of the white man and the Cheyenne Indian.
But that fragile separate peace with the outside world came crashing to an end in July 1876. The annihilation of General George Custer and his 7th Cavalry regiment by the forces of Sitting Bull and Crazy Horse at the Battle of the Little Big Horn meant the end of the way of life shared by the young Brothers of the Wolf.
To stay in their homeland would compel them to choose sides in the war between the reds and the whites, fighting to a bitter end. Abandoning home and ranch, the Brothers went into self-imposed exile, far from their home grounds. The West was big enough for them to make new lives in.
Sam Two Wolves and Matt Bodine were fighting men, shootists, and adventurers. Fighting men, not outlaws. They were resolved to stay “on the side of the law,” more or less. It was sometimes a shifty, slippery borderland, in a world where the unjust too often bent the law to their own devices and those outside the law often had their own peculiar brand of integrity.
Yes, Sam Two Wolves could rest easy knowing that Matt Bodine had his back, just as Matt was secure in the same confidence.
Two Wolves wielded a deadly gun, filling graves on Boot Hills throughout the West. Matt Bodine was a gunman of an even higher order of magnitude, with a lightning-fast draw and unerring accuracy. His bullets hit their mark as surely as a compass needle points north. He took his place in the front rank of such fabled gunhawks as Wes Hardin, Billy the Kid, Mysterious Dave Mather, Sartana, Colonel Douglas Mortimer, and Johnny Cross.
Few were his equals. Yet, now, at the card table, sat not one or two but possibly three gunfighters who were or might be his match. They were Johnny Ringo, Wyatt Earp, and Buckskin Frank Leslie.
Fate, fortune, or a combination of both had brought such masterful gunhawks together in Tombstone at the same time. Unlikely though such a concentration might seem to later ages, the history books will affirm the truth of such a gathering.
Tombstone was where the action was, the bonanza boomtown with fortunes waiting to be made. Its proximity to the Mexican border was a factor, too. Borders mean smuggling, gunrunning, robbery, rustling. Tombstone’s badmen liked to say they worked “a two-way street, running north and south.”
One who well knew the truth of that statement was Ringo. John Ringo, thirty-six, first made a name for himself in Texas’s Mason County War. A natural-born loner, he was a man of few words—brooding, a thinker. To the amazement of his associates, he actually read and enjoyed books!
A handsome man with dark hair and hooded eyes, Ringo could be likeable enough when he tried, but he didn’t try too often. He was a heavy drinker in a time and place where drinking to excess was not the exception but the rule. He was touchy when sober (which was rare enough), but when he was in his cups, he had a hair-trigger temper. Not long ago in the Tombstone area, he had shot and killed a man who refused his offer of a drink of whiskey. He was a dead shot and lightning-fast draw with the twin ivory-handled .44s worn on his hips.
Ringo had many acquaintances, few friends. His closest friend in all the world also sat at the table: Curly Bill Brocius. Curly Bill had a big black mop of curly hair, a big mustache, and a big, friendly grin. He was genuinely good-natured, which only made him more dangerous. He could genuinely like a man, yet kill him at the drop of a hat, if needed. A solid gunman with plenty of sand, he did not rank among the killer elite of gunfighters.
He was a rustler, robber, outlaw. He and Ringo were the undisputed leaders of a loose-knit gang of over half-a-hundred rustlers and outlaws known locally as “The Cowboys.” The band numbered many Texans, Southerners, and ex-Rebels—or, rather, not so ex-, even though fifteen years had passed since war’s end.
Seated across from Ringo at the round green table was a remarkable man who in many ways was Ringo’s opposite—yet perhaps not so opposite as that, despite surface appearances.
He was Wyatt Earp, the keystone arch of the fighting Earp clan. His older brother Virgil was assistant deputy sheriff of Pima County, the vast tract of land in southeast Arizona Territory of which Tombstone was a part.
Wyatt, thirty-one, was tall, athletic, clean lined, with fair, almost blondish, hair and mustache. His eyes were icy: “Gunsight Eyes.” He had been a shotgun messenger and range detective. As a fighting lawman in the wild and woolly cow towns of Ellsworth, Wichita, and Dodge City, he’d made the peace and kept it—at gunpoint, as needed. Even his enemies acknowledged his fearlessness.
Wyatt was not so wedded to the law that he hadn’t had run-ins with it himself. The big iron on his hip was a Colt Peacemaker, a weighty piece useful both for shooting and clunking heads. Wyatt did plenty of both. He held down the post of assistant deputy sheriff in Tombstone. The job didn’t pay much. He beefed up his finances by working as a Wells Fargo shotgun messenger and card slick.
His long-fingered cardplayer’s hands were no less gunfighter’s hands, uncallused by hard work. Wyatt liked to dude it up, dressing like a townsman, with a long-tailed black coat, fancy brocaded vest, white shirt, and string tie.
There was no love lost between Wyatt and Ringo. Bad blood? Not necessarily, not yet. But hard feelings. They’d crossed trails before. In Wichita, Wyatt had rousted and pistol-whipped friends of Ringo’s. Strictly in the line of duty, Wyatt’s defenders said, but the Cowboy faction saw it differently.
“Ringo’s always half on the prod anyway, Wyatt’s more even-tempered—he don’t gun a man less’n it’s needful. Needful for him, that is.” So said Frank Leslie, another cardplayer sitting in on the last hand of this marathon poker game. But he didn’t say it there and never said it to Wyatt’s face.
Nashville Franklin Leslie was better known as Buckskin Frank, due to his penchant for wearing fringed leather vests and jackets. He had been an Indian scout for the army, gambler, brawler, shotgun messenger, gunman and, of all things, a wizard bartender. He made a dazzling show out of building and pouring drinks and was much in demand by the high-line saloons of Tombstone. He didn’t go looking for trouble, but it seemed to find him, not least because of his habit of romancing other men’s attractive wives.
It was estimated that he’d killed between ten and fifteen men in gunfights. Was he as fast and deadly as Matt Bodine, Ringo, or Wyatt Earp? None of them pushed too hard to find out.
Beside Wyatt and seated at the big table was younger brother Morgan Earp, twenty-four.
In all, a tableful of Tombstone’s rising men. Some played for the fun of a sociable game; others were out for blood—not just at the card tables, either. Now came the last hand, for a $4,000–plus pot.
It was down to Sam Two Wolves, Ringo, Wyatt, and Buckskin Frank. The others at the table had either thrown in their hands or sat it out.
“Show.”
Cool, nonchalant, professional, Wyatt showed his hand. “A straight. Can you beat it?”
Sam Two Wolves responded in kind. “Three ladies.” Three queens.
Morgan Earp started. He began swearing under his breath, not so far under that it couldn’t be made out. He swore violently, feelingly, with real emotion. He was a good-looking youngster, the handsomest of the Earp brood, though his face was now ugly with passion.
“Hell, Morg, the way you’re carrying on, one’d think it was your money that was lost,” Wyatt said mildly.
“All you Earps share and share
alike,” Ringo said.
“Yes and no.” Wyatt was noncommittal.
“If one of you gets a job with Wells Fargo, another does. If one of you gets a lawdog’s post, the others wind up as special deputies,” Ringo went on.
In fact, that’s what Morg was, a special deputy.
Ringo held his cards in his right hand, pouring from a bottle with his left. It was one of many such bottles he’d consumed this night. He threw in his hand. “That beats me.”
He had two kings, and two aces.
Curly Bill exploded in amazement. “Two pair?! You threw in all those hundreds of dollars and try to get away by bluffing with a lousy two pair?!”
“Thought it was worth a try,” Ringo said, shrugging. “Nothing ventured, nothing gained.”
“That’s a mighty big bluff!”
“Who knows? Might’ve pulled it off with deeper pockets.”
“What’re you holding, Frank? Show,” Wyatt said.
“Why not? You paid for a look-see,” Buckskin Frank said. He had three jacks, two deuces. “Full house.”
Morg resumed swearing. Frank’s big hands reached out to rake in the pot. Matt and Two Wolves exchanged glances as Frank gathered up the cash.
“Oh, well. Hard come, easy go,” Matt said, sighing.
“Couple years’ wages for an honest cowpoke,” Curly Bill said.
“Honest cowpoke? You got any?” Morg cracked.
“Nothing but. Got about a hundred or so,” Bill said. The Cowboys, of which he and Ringo were the head, were cutthroats. Ringo laughed.
“That’s Tombstone for you, men. Get rich quick, get dead faster,” Buckskin Frank said.
The game was over. Chairs were pushed back from the table, their occupants rising to stretch out. Groans sounded as muscles stiff and sore from sitting hunched over a deck of cards all night got a workout. Weary eyes were rubbed, gaping mouths yawned.
“Aren’t you gonna give us a chance to get even?” Morg demanded of Frank.
“We all agreed that was to be the last hand, Morg,” Wyatt said.
“You’ll get your chance to get even. Always another game somewhere,” Matt Bodine said cheerfully.
Buckskin Frank paused. “I’m game for another hand, if you boys are.”
Sam Two Wolves laughed. “You cleaned us out.”
“You could put up your claim on Spear Blade Spur. That ought to be worth a couple of hundred dollars,” Frank said.
“I’ll give a hundred more than anything he offers,” Wyatt said quickly.
“Not tonight, hoss. I got the dollars,” Frank countered.
“We turned down two thousand from Johnny Behan for that claim last week,” Two Wolves said.
“Tsk-tsk. And here I thought ol’ Johnny B. could hold his liquor. He must’ve had a skinful to make that offer. I’d’ve jumped at it, if I was you.”
“You’re not me, Frank,” Two Wolves said, smiling.
Matt chimed in. “That claim’s proving out rich. Assays high.”
“Mebbe. If you found a lode and not a surface vein that’ll peter out after a few hundred dollars’ yield,” Frank said.
“Must be worth something for an ace gambler like you to take an interest in it,” Two Wolves said.
“Like you said, I’m a gambler. Sometimes I like to play a long shot. Besides, you boys ain’t miners. I can’t see you grubbing around in the hard rock away from the sun. All that grubbing in the dirt with pick and shovel . . .”
“We’re not afraid of hard work, Frank.”
“I ain’t afraid of women, but that don’t mean I want to get married. If you change your mind about selling, let me know. I’ll take the claim off your hands out of friendship, the spirit of good fellowship.”
“You’re all heart, Frank,” Matt said.
“The bidding is always open,” Sam said. “Bring plenty of cash.”
“I’ve got plenty of cash, but I think I’ll hold on to it for a while longer,” Frank said.
Ringo and Curly Bill stood off to one side. Ringo had a big grin, puzzling Bill. “Damned if I can figure out what you’re so happy about, John.”
“At least Wyatt didn’t win,” Ringo said.
Milt Joyce, owner-proprietor of the Oriental, joined the group of cardplayers. He was bright-eyed even after an all-nighter. “Buy you boys a drink?”
They took him up on his offer, filtering out of the gaming area into the saloon. Boot heels and leather soles sounded loud amid the unnatural hush of the big hall. The large, now nearly-empty room held the eerie air of a public space deserted in its off-hours.
A couple of saloon girls roused themselves from the sidelines where they’d been half-dozing. They had bold eyes, red-lipped mouths, masses of long hair, smooth white shoulders, full bosoms. Their seductive figures were wrapped in satin and lace, ruffles and frills.
Impelled by an irresistible instinct, they battened on big winner Buckskin Frank.
“Milt’s looking to get back some of his money,” Matt said, his elbow nudging Sam Two Wolves in the ribs.
Frank was squeezed between a big blonde and a redhead, with others crowding in. “Now, girls, don’t grab, there’s enough of me to go around,” he protested weakly.
“Buy me some champagne, Frank, honey,” one lovely cooed.
“Why not?” He bought a bottle for each of them.
The other cardplayers went to the bar where a barkeep was setting up the drinks. Sam Two Wolves was thirsty. He didn’t drink much while gambling, wanting to keep a clear head. For all the good that did me tonight, he thought sourly.
Now he needed a boost, a bracer, for the ride out to the claim at Spear Blade Spur. The barkeep filled a whiskey glass and Sam Two Wolves drank deeply.
Matt set down an empty glass, the barkeep refilling it. He and Sam had a couple more drinks and said their good-byes.
“Stick around and have some breakfast, men. We’ll go get us some steak and eggs,” Curly Bill said.
“Sounds great, but we’ve got to go check on our claim. Won’t do to leave it unattended for more than a day or so, not with all the claim jumping that’s been going down lately,” Matt said.
Ringo stopped drinking long enough to opine, “You don’t sound worried.”
“We know how to deal with claim jumpers,” Sam said.
“Hah! I bet!” Curly Bill laughed.
Matt and Sam said so long and went out. The sun had been up an hour or so. It had been cool at night, almost chilly, but it was hot now. Before too long it would be hotter still. Tombstone was in high desert country. Like Denver, it was a mile-high town, its elevation above sea level.
A pinched-faced youngster in a white bib-front apron leaned on a broom, sweeping away dirt from the boardwalk sidewalk in front of a dry goods store. A couple of men on horseback rode past, raising thin clouds of dust, fine as mist, brown mist.
There were several decent livery stables in town. Sam and Matt put up their horses at one such place on Fremont Street between Third Street and Fourth Street. It was a decent-enough outfit, quiet, workmanlike. Nothing about it would make it stand out or have anybody give it a second thought.
O.K. Corral was its name.
Matt and Sam got their horses and rode out of town.
THREE
Tombstone stood atop a flat-topped rise of Goose Flats. A valley spread out for miles below. Sam Two Wolves and Matt Bodine rode together side by side down the slope, to a tablelike prairie. They angled southwest. The claim at Spear Blade Spur was some miles southwest of town.
Long purple-blue shadows of early morning slanted across the valley floor, dwindling as the sun rose higher in the east. Matt rode a handsome gray with fine lines and a wicked gleam in its eye. He and Sam could handle the animal, but others?—look out! Sam rode a bay with a reddish-brown mane—a scrappy, fast-cutting cow pony.
There was good grazing land around Tombstone, but not in this quarter of the plains. Rivers and streams shunned these flats. Grassland thinned, soil becoming sandy,
stony, and arid. Here, vegetation gave way to the mineral kingdom. Boulders and rock outcroppings studded this waterless expanse.
Rock ridges, fin-backed and saw-toothed, humped up out of the ground. Ridges unrolled in long lines of gently swelling hills, like waves upon the sea. Their eastern slopes were bright with sunshine. Masses of upthrust rock carved up the tableland, laying down the outer ramparts of what soon became a maze of canyons.
Dry washes honeycombed the flat. Rock formations showed stacked multi-colored strata, rippling bands of red-brown-charcoal gray contrasting with tan and sandy soil.
The plain was fringed with a thin scrum of greenery. Cactus abounded: clumps and beds of prickly pear and catclaw, low, stout barrel cactus, upright saguaros standing sentinel, some eerily man-shaped.
Hard stony ground was blanketed by a layer of finely-powdered gray alkali dust and grit. Matt and Sam set their horses at a walk to keep the dust from being kicked up. The two frequently looked back to make sure they weren’t being followed.
“Lots of bad hombres in town,” Matt said.
“And outside it,” said Sam.
On they rode to their claim on Spear Blade Spur. They didn’t talk much.
Unlike townsfolk, they didn’t have to be running their mouths all the time. Hunters know the virtues of silence and they were hunters born and bred. They were at home in the desert. The desert affects men in different ways. Anxious types frequently chatter away, making noise in a futile attempt to push back the great silent immensity of vastness that dwarfs man and his works.
Sam and Matt rode on in silent communion with Nature and each other. The steady stride of their high-stepping horses laid down a soothing rhythm. There were soft creakings of saddle leather, the chirp and flutter of tiny birds sheltering in the bare branches of gnarly dwarf trees and bushes.
There was grandeur, as rocky cliffs thrust up, rising hundreds of feet. The vista was scenic, deadly. Omnipresent was the threat of the Apaches with Victorio now on the warpath. The braves who’d attached themselves to Victorio were a hardy, wide-ranging bunch of desert raiders. Small bands might separate themselves a hundred miles or more from the main body to rejoin them later.
Blood Bond 16: A Hundred Ways to Die Page 2
